


illumination

by OniGil



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Festival of Lost Light dredges up some old wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	illumination

**Author's Note:**

> Nope... I don't even know what's going on here.

            “So what’s all this?” The wave of Deadlock’s hand encompassed the darkened city below them, where the only light came from optics and biolights. There were plenty of people out and about, probably the city’s entire population, though there was nobody else on their narrow balcony near the city’s edge. A favorite haunt of Wing’s, apparently. For someone who liked people, he seemed to come to this place often.

            Even though everyone had, for some reason, come out into the streets, their collective conversation was only a soft hum. Nobody was panicking over a power outage. Something planned, then. Maybe conservation, something that made sense: on Turmoil’s cruiser they had kept the lights dim to save their energon.

            But in this place, nothing made any sense at all.

            “It’s the Festival of Lost Light,” Wing said. Deadlock waited for an explanation, but Wing didn’t say anything else, just leaned on the slender railing to look across the darkness. Wing wasn’t in the habit of explaining things that weren’t sparring forms. He was the type who’d smile mysteriously and say something cryptic and expect Deadlock to magically understand.

            “And that’s…?” Deadlock prompted.

            “It’s the day we remember what we’ve lost.”

            Deadlock’s lip curled. “What would any of you know about loss in your oh-so-perfect city, your precious Utopia? If you’d lost something you’d know. It’s not something you can turn on and off like your lights.”

            “When something terrible happens, Drift, it doesn’t mean you’re never allowed to be happy again.”

            “Then you don’t know what it’s like,” Deadlock spat. “Anything I ever had I lost. My friend. My rank. Now my freedom. What would you know about any of that? What have _you_ lost?”

            “Our home,” Wing said. “Our planet. My friends, my past, my name, the wind and the sky, my freedom—you think you’re the only one who’s _trapped_ here?!”

            He broke off, as if suddenly aware how his voice had risen. The first time his composure had broken. The first time he seemed real, not an ideal or an illusion or a façade.

            Abruptly he turned back toward the railing. Deadlock followed his gaze out across the city, and saw dozens—hundreds—of tiny lights, white and pale gold, red and blue and the occasional green, slowly rising from the darkened streets, glowing like embers.

            “The Sparks of the lost,” Wing said, quietly. From his subspace he drew an orb, small enough to hold in the palm of one hand. As he cupped it, it began to glimmer with white light as fragile as a flame about to blow out.

            “What was your friend’s name?” he asked.

            “What friend?” Deadlock growled.

            “The one you’re thinking of now.”

            “Don’t try to play me, Wing,” he warned, flashing his fangs in a snarl. He turned away from Wing’s gold optics, folded his arms. Refused to look at Wing. Let him stand, small and alone. Amazing, really, how small he was. Not a giant like Turmoil or Dai Atlas or Axe, but all that stood between Deadlock and freedom.

            Silence prowled between them, heavy and sad. Deadlock shook his head, as though shooing away a pest, but almost unwillingly found his gaze sliding back up to the hovering lights. Stupid. A meaningless display. These little floating lanterns wouldn’t bring anyone back. What was the point?

            Just like Wing, though. Deadlock knew exactly what he’d say. _Not everything has to have a point, Drift. Some things just are._

            Maybe it was weakness, but Deadlock tried, just for a moment, to understand what that was like. No purpose. Just being. One moment at a time. Wing didn’t say anything, but his energy field reached out, brushing just against the fringes of Deadlock’s.

            “Gasket,” Deadlock said gruffly.

            Wing stared silently, solemnly, at him for a long moment, then lifted the lantern to his face.

            “Gasket,” he said, his lips just brushing the light. “Thank you.”

            “For what?”

            “For being important to you.”

            “You don’t know anything about him,” Deadlock snapped. “And you don’t know anything about me. You don’t know _scrap_.”

            “You’ve never given me the chance.”

            “Frag this,” Deadlock said, whirling away. “I’m leaving. If you’re supposed to stop me, stop me.”

            Wing’s voice carried a note of pain he had never heard there, raw and sharp and more real than he had ever sounded. “Not tonight, Drift.” His voice cracked. “Please.”

            Deadlock glared at him until Wing turned, staring at the lights in the false sky, holding that tiny fragile light close to his chest.

            Deadlock chuffed through his vents and stepped up to the railing, casting a sidelong glance at the lantern flickering in Wing’s hands.

            “So what do you do with that?”

            Wing gave the lantern a gentle toss. It hovered, then floated slowly upward, towards the sparkling constellations of light. Deadlock watched it go, one tiny fluttering light in the darkness.

            “Til all are one,” Wing murmured.

            “You sound more like an Autobot every day.”

            “They don’t own the words, no more than the gladiators in Kaon.”

            Deadlock shot him a sharp look. “What would you know about that?”

            Wing’s plating ruffled in a shrug, but he offered no answer. Deadlock tried to pick Gasket’s light from the masses.

            “What do you think it means?” he muttered finally.

            “That we all come from the same place,” Wing said. “And someday we will all return to it.”

            “Some of us sooner than others.”

            “Yes,’ Wing said quietly.

            They leaned on the rail, silent, listening to the faint strains of music from deep within the unlit city. From the corner of his eye, Deadlock saw Wing drop his head to look at the railing, then over at Deadlock in a soft gold gleam, then back to the lights.

            “Thank you for staying,” he said, softer than air.


End file.
